I’se partickler fond of my beer—I is—
And ⸺ their eyes,
If ever they tries
To rob a poor man of his beer.”
Its popularity has never waned—and it has reached to such a height that the brewing trade seems to be instituted for the propagation of Peers of the realm—a fact which Dr. Johnson even could not have foreseen, although, at the sale of Thrale’s brewery, he did say that they had not met together to sell boilers and vats, but “the potentiality of growing rich beyond the dream of avarice.”
It was the national drink—for tea and coffee were not introduced into England until the middle of the seventeenth century—and it is only of very modern times that the “free breakfast table” fad of statesmanship has made those beverages so popular, by bringing them within the means of the very poorest. Beer was, perforce, drank morning, noon and night by those, and they were the vast majority, who could not afford wine—and, as a rule, after the Norman Conquest, when the Anglo-Saxons copied the soberer customs of their conquerors, the English were not drunkards as a nation; in fact, although almost all their jests hinge on drinking, there is in most of them an underlying moral, which in print are as telling as in this illustration, which, in deference to nasty Mrs. Grundy, has been slightly toned down. Here is very cleverly satirised for reprobation the phases of men under the influence of drink. How it transforms them into beasts, some like lions, others like asses and calves, sensual as hogs, greedy as goats, stupid as gulls.
Every man brewed his own beer up to the seventeenth century, when we find Pepys speaking of Cobb’s strong ales at Margate; and in the reign of Queen Elizabeth the public brewing had begun at Burton, for an inquiry was made by Walsingham to Sir Ralph Sadler, the governor of Tutbury Castle, as to “What place neere Tutbury, beere may be provided for her Majesty’s use?” and the answer was that it might be obtained at Burton, three miles off. Good Queen Bess would, indeed, have fared badly without her beer, for her breakfast beverages were always beer and wine.
Yet every one was fairly sober. They were weaned on alcoholic liquors, and, consequently, enjoyed them as foods, as they undoubtedly are, if properly used. It is very well to “see our sen as others see us,” but it is almost impossible to agree with Estienne Perlin, who published his Description des Royaulmes d’Angleterre et d’Escosse, at Paris in 1558, in which he says that the English “sont fort grands yvrongnes.” His description is, we feel, as untrustworthy as his English. “Car si un Anglois vous veult traicter, vous dira en son langage, vis dring a quarta rim vim gasquim, vim hespaignol, vim malvoysi, c’est a dire veulx tu venir boire une quarte de vin du gascoigne, une autre d’espaigne, & une autre de malvoisie, en beuvant & en mengeant vous diront plus de cent fois drind iou, c’est a dire je m’en vois boyre a toy, & vous leur responderes en leur langage iplaigiu, qui est a dire, je vous plege. Si vous les remarcies vous leurs dires en leurs langages, god tanque artelay, c’est a dire, je vous remercie de bon cœur. Eulx estans yvres, vous jureront le sang et le mort que vous beures tout ce que vous tenes dedans vostre tace, & vous diront ainsi, bigod sol drind iou agoud oin.” It is much to be feared that the worthy Frenchman, if his description is to be at all relied on, mixed with rather a fast lot.
Ale was looked upon as a kindly creature, and our ancestors of the seventeenth century had several ballads in praise of the “little Barleycorn” and the indictment, as well as the “Bloody Murther,” of Sir John Barleycorn. From this latter the peasant poet, Burns, plagiarised right royally. There was also a very curious Chap book published in the early part of the eighteenth century, entitled,